Nature Poems

	The Whistle Each night round about This hour, round The black spaces Between one exhaust And another I hear The one whistle It communicates to each Night thief and star-gazer Each soft hair Embezzled from the cold. The weary old Mutt chases sounds. The fox staking rubbish bins Senses dog like a sharp pin Slinks at the pitch His fearless feet twitch As the ghost passes Beneath the silver birch An invisible owl floats with A close feather to earth And its guttural slumber And the man's foot beat Creeps upon the plot Upon undisturbed ashes The mute red-bricks Shudder minute echos To his sub-sonic shrill Home-coming. Stares Prick from the end Where bats plunder ceilings The man treads softly Moving his shadow on Like magic. His call To the sniffer makes A legacy to the night His curling lips © David Incoll 2001
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